Tumblr Fanfictions
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: My tumblr fanfictions that I've written under daughterofholmes, now conveniently all in one place! Woo! It's rated M for sexytimes! It's not all pairings, though, so there should be something for everyone! Check it out and leave a review please?
1. We're Going to Catch a Criminal

"_We're going to catch a criminal."_

John was excited, perhaps unreasonably. After three years, a time that seemed immeasurable, torturous, unending, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street. He humbly tended to John after he'd fainted from shock and eagerly told the story of how he'd survived his skydive from St. Bart's.

"_So you're back. And he's gone." Neither of them were questions. Not really._

_Sherlock rolled his shoulders noncommittally. "More or less. There's one more." He looked painfully at John, his pale eyes begging. "Come with me? Just like old times?" As if he was expecting John to say no, to decline._

_As if John could say no. "Yes, of course!" He laughed suddenly, still a bit in shock. Sherlock seemed taken aback for a moment, but then he smiled gratefully._

"_Good!" And he jumped up. "We're going to catch a criminal! And we'll have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need to go."_

As usual, Sherlock didn't eat. He sat watching John eat. John was ravenous, not having been properly hungry for what felt like three years (in reality, he knew he'd fed himself to keep himself alive, but it didn't taste like anything. Not really), and having Sherlock back with him…well, it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For once, he didn't scold Sherlock about his eating habits. As usual, he wasn't properly looking at Sherlock, not with the proper, deducing eyes his flatmate had tried to train him to use. John was just too happy to have Sherlock back. And so Sherlock, deducing this, understood, and he let John look with fondness and affection at the man who had previously been dead.

Now, they were standing side by side. Well, closer than side by side. John was pressed into Sherlock, his left shoulder nestled behind Sherlock's right, their bodies fit together like platonic puzzle pieces. The empty house, with its exposed pipes and useless electrical wires and stained, ugly walls visible in the dim light of overcast London (obviously oblivious to the man who had just rejoined the living, breathing life into the flatmate who'd so desperately missed him) was cold, so both men had their hands in their pockets, standing stiffly, watching and waiting. A wooden replica of Sherlock "sat" in the chair by the window, moving about like a puppet every so often. It was actually a puppet, Sherlock had explained, maneuvered from below with the help of Mrs. Hudson—a reverse marionette, Sherlock had called it. A clever invention of his, as usual, brought to fruition with the help of his brother.

They were waiting for nightfall, or for the darkness of the coming cloud cover. For once, Sherlock wasn't sure, admitted he couldn't possibly predict what Colonel Sebastian Moran had in mind. But whichever one came first, John was happy. He was here, beside Sherlock, where he belonged.

There was an impossible lull in action. John stayed tense—it was the military training that did it, really. He could never relax if he knew there would be danger, regardless of when it would happen—but Sherlock began to sag almost imperceptibly. His shoulders slumped forward, which resulted in a slight, unnoticeable whisper of fabric. But John noticed. And then, he looked at his flatmate. Really, truly looked, with the deductive eyes Sherlock had trained him to see with. And he saw quite a bit more than he needed to see. Certainly more than he was looking for.

Sherlock was thinner, paler, weaker than he'd been three years ago. It was true that, after they'd first met, Sherlock had gradually begun to eat a bit more, and his body began to gain imperceptible muscle. He was still thin—oh yes, very much so. Impossibly so. He'd still been pale, oh yes—like he hadn't been out in proper sunlight in ages. But he looked marginally better, marginally healthy. Three years had not, evidently, been kind to the detective. John looked. And as he looked, his frowned.

Sherlock's eyes were staring, focused, watching the puppet across the street. But they were softened by exhaustion and depression—yes, depression, though John would have to ask about that later. His hair was surprisingly flawless, but the rest of him looked disheveled and undone. The coat, which Sherlock usually buttoned or at the very least held tighter around himself, was open completely. Hiding, John knew, his true thinness. Beneath his coat collar, his customary scarf was missing—lost, perhaps, during his arduous journey, blowing through the air somewhere over the Swiss Alps, a blue snake prey to the harsh, cold wind. On his neck, John could see—faint, mind, but identifiable all the same—scars. Scars from war wounds. He imagined there were many scars all over his body, and probably bruises, too. Lingering effects of fights in another time, another place, another world.

John's eyes strayed back to and lingered on Sherlock's face. The canvas seemed open and exposed, and John drank it all in with analytical eyes Sherlock would've been proud of. Sherlock's head tilted slightly to the side, and he was now leaning back, his left shoulder blade just brushing the edge of the corner they'd wedged themselves into. His cheekbones stood out more than John remembered, the sharp angle of one clear from the man's slight profile, the shadows showing the hollows in his face. Though he was obviously in deep concentration, John could tell that the brain had slowed down a fraction. His entire expression was softer, his breathing low and even—sleepy. His blinks lasted longer than was natural. He almost looked as if he might pass out from exhaustion at any moment. For a minute, his foot caught as he shifted, and he almost did fall into unconsciousness.

John was quick to rescue him. "All right?"

Sherlock grunted, nodded, and then finally spoke: "Yes." His voice didn't sound all right, though, and John noted the slight change in the baritone—the change he hadn't noticed until now—that indicated the weakness that the man had not allowed himself to feel for three very long, very tiring years.

John looked up as the sun's strained light dimmed with massive cloud cover. Sherlock tensed. "It's time," he whispered. "Look." Indeed, in the street below, a suspicious man walked against the grain. John stared right at him. Moran.

John nodded. Then, he chuckled. "Dinner."

"What?" Sherlock glanced at John, distracted, a smile gracing his thin, nearly colorless, chapped lips. Normally, Sherlock loathed distractions, but being back with John made him fail to care.

"You heard me." John smirked. "Dinner. Food. Down you. In you." He stopped, and then added before Sherlock might protest: "Later. After this."

Sherlock chuckled and settled back against the wall. "Yes, doctor." And he nudged John back against the wall, cloaking him in shadow. "Now hush."


	2. Cigarette

**Cigarette-an ultra shortfic**

"Do you smoke anymore, Sherlock?" Hathaway lit a fag gracefully at his pale lips.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm doing well."

"Suit yourself, damn healthy bugger," and Hathaway took a long, tantalizing drag, exhaling the soft, gray smoke of the low-tar cigarette.

Sherlock leaned forward until his ribs were touching the table he, Hathaway, Lewis, and John were currently sat at, the latter two off to the side a bit, watching the old friends curiously. The consulting detective sniffed the smoke and exhaled with a satisfied sigh.

James Hathaway eyed Sherlock with his deep gray eyes and then gave a little, impatient snort. "My arse you are," he said affectionately, removing the fag from between his lips and handing it to Sherlock. "Here. Take it."

Sherlock happily accepted the lit cigarette and placed it at his lips. He inhaled and exhaled beautifully, blowing smoke in Hathaway's face. "Thank you, James," he said warmly. Hathaway only grinned in reply.

"Now then," Sherlock folded his hands on the table, "about that case…"


	3. The Dictator's Son

**Dictator AU**

**Chapter 1: The Dictator's Son**

Professor Socrates Moriarty was nearing his sixties. He was a wiry but not very thin man with a square face and a rather ridiculous protruding beak of a nose. He had fierce dark eyes, though, and thin lips which stretched across his face when he talked. His hair was oily, once a sort of dirty blonde but graying into a greenish color. He dressed in suits, always. Now, he was sitting in a swivel chair at his important-looking desk, his fingers clasped together as he looked at his son.

Jim Moriarty was 24, in the prime of life. He looked more like his mother, his face a kind shape—particularly when he smiled or laughed. His eyes were rounder, bigger, but had the same dangerous dark to them that he'd inherited from his father. But his hair was spiked up, in a gray tee shirt and jeans and trainers, relaxing clothes from his job at IT, where no one knew he was Jim Moriarty at all. But his face was serene. And in its serenity, something dangerous lurked. Like a sleeping snake, a waiting spider, he had all the patience in the world.

"In three days," Socrates Moriarty began, "You will inherit London, and with it all its people, all its problems, all its nonsense, and all of its legends." Without looking, he lifted a photograph from his desk and threw it in the general direction of his son. Jim leaned forward to drag it towards himself and looked curiously at it. "Do you know the man in the photograph?"

Jim tilted his head, pursing his lips, wondering if this was a trick question. The subject didn't look like a man at all. It was blurry and of poor quality—obviously, the original photograph was taken from far away, possibly civilian or CCTV—and could not be properly enhanced. It simply looked like a blob. Jim thought he could distinguish a foot wearing a black shoe, but no more. "No, father," he handed the photograph back.

"This man has only just shown up on our radar," Professor Moriarty settled in for a long speech and Jim settled in to listen. "He is called 'The Shadow Angel', which is also written 'Angel of the Shadows' in more artistic circles. But his common name is The Shadow. At least as far as we can tell. He has, reportedly, claimed to be able to thwart whatever you may choose to do during your reign. This, of course, is blatant insubordination. Those who tag 'The Shadow Will Rise' are less harmless. Pay no attention." The Professor waved his hand in dismissal. "They are civilians, and many do not know the Shadow's identity. It is…a fad. Nothing of your concern."

"Yes, father."

The Professor leaned forward. "You know how I care for your little husband, but I do blame his…work…for the city's retaliation. The civilian government is up in arms. My little Great Horned Owl has done what he can to soothe the masses, but blatant killings for the purpose of terrorizing?" He tutted, shaking his head. "It won't do."

Jim clenched his fist, twisting at his wedding ring. "Yes, father."

"It is good that we understand each other, then." The Professor grinned and leaned back in his chair. "It is imperative that you eradicate this threat. Now, come give your dear old father a kiss."

Jim crossed behind the table and pressed his lips against his father's cheek. "Goodnight, father."

"Goodnight, my son."

Jim left and closed the door, taking out his phone and dialing his first speed dial number. "Seb, it's Jimmy. Do you have the medication? Excellent. I'll see you after work. Kiss-kiss!" Then, the young mastermind hung up, smiling a reptilian smile.


	4. The Shadow Looms

**Chapter 2: The Shadow Looms**

It was January. He'd just turned 24 last week.

He heard the news while he was dirtying his face, applying makeup and dust to make it look worn and ill cared for. He darkened the shadows made by his high cheekbones, dusted with circles under his eyes with a purple-blue mixture to make them look worse, and tussled his hair into a bit of a mop.

The news was in the papers, of course, but it was on the telly in the next room, blaring to keep the servants company. "Our lovely leader, Professor Socrates Moriarty was found dead this morning in his rooms. There is no evidence of foul play, and it was confirmed that no one entered his rooms last night except himself. The coroner has ruled it death by natural causes."

"Oh, certainly not," the Shadow muttered to himself, finishing his eyeliner and beginning to make a bruise for his left cheek, dusting around his neck to make his skin appear more tan.

"His son, James, who was to take the throne in three days' time, had this to say."

The Shadow could envision the man who had been his target for days now. Sleek black hair, kind face, dangerous eyes, prepared to do anything. He scowled as he heard the obviously false tears.

"My father was a great man," the young James sniffled, his voice tinny with well-played grief. "He taught me so much. It's a shame that he's gone."

"My arse," muttered the Shadow, tilting his head from side to side, viewing at all sorts of angles. When he heard the maid hovering in the next room, he tightened the towel around his waist and darted out into the breakfast room, startling his brother's Siamese cat, Venus, who leaped out of the way and hissed at him from one of the couch cushions she technically was not allowed on, but Mycroft allowed it, anyway.

Sherlock hummed as he neared the breakfast table. Diana always made an atrocious assortment of undercooked eggs, soggy toast, and cold ham, served with stale biscuits, which always made him sick just to think of putting any of it into his mouth. But Diana could do one thing right: great coffee. Sherlock lifted his favorite red mug from the table and inhaled contentedly. Hazelnut, with just a touch of cinnamon. His favorite. None of the other maids got it quite right. He sipped his coffee, savoring the warm, sweet liquid on his tongue before swallowing. There were few benefits, he asserted, to living a posh lifestyle. One was education—invaluable—and the other was expensive coffee.

Sherlock sighed as the coffee warmed his throat, his chest, his stomach. He drank another sip, not realizing his towel was slipping, savoring the drink. He didn't notice that he was standing nude in the breakfast hall until Diana screamed and, dropping the vacuum, scurried away like a startled mouse.

Sherlock looked to his feet, seeing the black towel crumpled there. Smiling, he lifted it and walked back through the house. Before he retreated up the stairs again, he did his best to hiss at Venus, human vocal cords not exactly built to make the desired noise. But it had the right effect, apparently. Venus' hair stood on end and, very suddenly, she had to be somewhere else.


	5. Anxiety P1

**Anxiety**

John Watson was seven when he lost his best friend the first time. There was a light drizzle in London, enough to dampen the hair on the two boys' heads. They were sitting on John's front step, while Mister and Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Holmes bid fond farewells and chattered like adults do. Mycroft was already away at school in Kensington. Harriet, ten, sat reading in the corner—too young to be a grown-up, too old for the two best friends.

John looked at the younger, thinner boy beside him. "I'll miss you, Sherlock."

"I'm not going far." Despite his age, Sherlock was quite good with words. It was why he'd only managed to make one friend. Well, one of the reasons. He was antisocial and disliked his slobbery, drooling, unintelligent peers. He much preferred John, a quiet listener, who had promised to always be there for him. "I'll only be a taxi ride away." He rested his head on John's shoulder a moment. "I'm tired."

John giggled. " 'S bout time for your nap, isn't it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come off it." He looked up at John. "Mummy and Mycroft and I will be in Kensington. 1 Laboratory Court, Kensington. Come visit?"

"Course I will." John promised, smiling back. "What bout your da?"

"Daddy's not in the picture anymore," Sherlock said sadly. John put his arm around his best friend and waited for Mrs. Holmes to call twice before letting go.

Two years passed and John Watson was eight. There had been some play-dates organized by the two families, and sometimes, Mycroft would drive one or both boys to John's house in London or Sherlock's in Kensington. Sherlock enjoyed science, and John didn't really like any of his subjects, but he thought the army was brilliant and he wanted to be a soldier. Sherlock became more and more observant as days passed, always scribbling in a little notebook. Though he was only seven, his handwriting already had the beginnings of an elegant scrawl. John's was only chicken scratch.

The boys played pirates and detectives and war. They threw bits of paper at Mycroft until he chased them bout the yard. The two boys always got away because Mycroft had got fat. John, too, had more of a pudge—the sort of tiny belly that just poked over his wee trousers, just adorable on kids his age and perfectly natural. Sherlock was as thin as ever. His clothes never seemed to fit quite right, his shirts always coming undone out of his trousers. Mrs. Holmes always complained that her boys always needed new clothes—Mycroft always outgrew them, and Sherlock only shrank in them!

John was worried about his younger friend's eating habits. One day, they were having lunch together at Sherlock's house under the great big tree in the back yard, away from everyone else. John's mum had packed him a peanut butter-jam sandwich and some sticky mini tarts with a little sippy box of juice. Sherlock had a cheese sandwich with a juice box and a cookie, but as usual, he hadn't touched his meal.

John bit into his sandwich. "Why don't you like your lunch?" He asked as he swallowed.

"I like my lunch fine." Sherlock replied, poking the straw through the top of the juice box and taking a long sip. He made a face and put it down. "Apple. I don't like apple. I told mummy I only drink grape."

"You're not eating it," John said innocently.

"I don't need to!" Sherlock announced proudly.

John made a face. "Course you do. Everyone does. Even soldiers and pirates. My mum told me."

"Maybe, but not right now." Sherlock got up. "Let's go find out where Mykie buried our treasure." He held out his hand with a smile, his bright eyes shining. "It's so much better than eating." John had to agree.

Two months since then. John had turned nine yesterday. Harry was supposed to walk him home from school, but she'd forgotten. And it was starting to rain. Hard.

John quickly pulled out his emergency cab money and ran to catch one waiting at the curb. He recited his address perfectly and climbed into the back of the cab. When he got home, he was going to tell Harry he was going to tell mum she'd left him all alone at school and he'd had to take a cab home. He smiled and looked out the window.

The rain was pelting so hard, he would get drenched if he went outside. Mum always told him that he'd catch his death in rain like this. How could that be? Rain was lovely. It was water, and water brought life to deserts.

No, water couldn't be all bad.

When he got home, he used the extra key under the mat and went inside. It was all dark inside, which was weird. John felt very alone and very afraid. "Mum?" He called out. "Da?"

There was no answer to his tentative pleas. John ran throughout the house, calling insistently. "Mum! Da! Mum! Da!" But no one answered him. Both his parents were usually home when he got home. John went to the kitchen, frantic, looking for a note. His parents always left he and Harry notes.

But there was no note.

John used the corded phone to call Harry's mobile. No answer. Harry always answered her mobile. Something was wrong.

Without a second thought, John dropped everything and ran out into the rain. "Taxi!" He cried, waving his arms until he'd got one.

"Where to, lil man?" The cabbie asked, chuffed to have someone so young on board.

"1 Laboratory Court, Kensington, please," John replied.

When he got to Sherlock's house, John thrust the fare at the cabbie and ran up, in the rain, to Sherlock's house. "Sherlock!" He yelled, pounding on the door, nearly in tears. "Sherlock! Help me!"

The door opened at once. "John?" Sherlock pulled John inside, his eyes wide with worry as he clasped John's shoulders and gave him a look up and down. Then, he pulled back, his growing austere and thoughtful. "Yours too?"

John nodded, trying not to cry. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock tugged John with him, up the stairs. "You're going to be okay, John. It'll all be okay."

"I'm scared…"


	6. Anxiety P2

_So John should be almost ten, actually. I sort of switched canons a bit inside the last update. My bad. Hope that didn't ruin it!_

"Don't worry," Sherlock replied. "I'll figure it out."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. The younger boy always knew what to do.

When they got to Sherlock's room, the curly-haired boy gestured to the chair by his computer. "Sit anywhere," but he meant 'sit where I told you.' John sat obediently, and watched Sherlock collapse into a child-sized armchair. John's da was a doctor, so John had learned to look for signs of illness in other people. And he could tell Sherlock either had not been well or that he was coming down with something. The bright eyes looked dull and misty.

John was about to ask Sherlock when he'd eaten last when the thin boy popped up like a jack-in-the-box. "Oh! It will be dinnertime soon. Are you hungry?"

John nodded. It wasn't dinnertime in the Watson household, but his mum usually made him a little snack to tide him over until then, so he was a wee bit hungry. Sherlock stood up again and John followed him back downstairs to the kitchen.

As the two boys pulled a chair over to stand on to reach the pantry, John asked, "Where's your nanny, Sherlock?" Sherlock's family had a lot of money—more money than John's—and could afford to have hired help.

Sherlock climbed onto the chair and bent to help John up, standing on tiptoe to try and reach the high shelves. He was still a bit shorter than John, who had the advantage of being older. "Gone," he grunted as he stretched. "Mummy fired her after one of her fits."

John nodded. Mrs. Holmes sometimes ate things that weren't very nice, and she became not very nice for a while. "Didn't Mykie stop her?"

"Mycroft's never here," Sherlock replied, jumping up to reach the pantry door. "There," He smiled proudly, dangling humorously off the handle as the door swung back. "Take what you want, John."

John didn't know how to make a lot of food all by himself yet, but he did know how to make his favorite snack—jam on toast. So he grabbed the bread and examined the Holmes' assortment of jams, before choosing a blackberry jam. John much preferred strawberry, but he and Sherlock both liked blackberry, and John was hoping he might convince Sherlock to eat. As the younger boy dropped to the floor, John witnessed a wobbling in his friend's steps.

"How long has your mummy been missing?" John asked, being careful while he used the toaster.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and slid to the floor. "Two days." Unlike most small children, who would fly into hysterics and decide their parents had been gone "forever," Sherlock was logical and detached from most situations, so his answers were usually as far from vague as possible in a small child.

"What about Mykie?"

"Same."

"How long's it been since your mummy made you a proper dinner?" John retrieved the hot bread from the toaster and put two more slices in, spreading the jam on the slightly burnt toast.

"Weeks." Sherlock admitted, standing on tiptoe, leaning on the chair, trying to see what John was up to. The child's obviously empty tummy prompted natural curiosity. "My nanny made me a proper dinner on Wednesday, but I haven't had the chance to eat much since. I was too busy." He wet his lips as John took a bite of his toast.

John swallowed, but the toast seemed to stick in his throat. His poor little friend must have been starving. He gulped as he looked at the pale, sickly face, the protruding cheekbones, the misty eyes, the little thin hand that stole to his empty tummy, the unhappy rumble that John recognized as, what his dad called, "belly monsters."

"You got a belly monster," he said.

"What?" Sherlock frowned, confused. "No I don't."

"Yer, ya do," John collected the other two slices of toast and spread the jam on them. "Go sit. I'll bring you some toast."

The Holmes' dining table was too tall for children to sit at properly, so Sherlock sat cross-legged under the table. John joined him, even though he could just poke his head over the edge of the table. As usual, Sherlock's clothes were far too big on him. His shorts were almost like pants, and his shirt looked like it could have been Mycroft's when he was Sherlock's age. John handed Sherlock two slices of toast on a plate and continued to eat his own.

Sherlock looked at the food as if it were poison and put it down before him. "I don't wanna," he whined, showing his age. "If I'm going to get our families back, then I have to be able to be smart!"

"You're smart," John reassured him. "So is your belly monster."

"What's a belly monster?" Sherlock asked lightly, his eyes widening with curiosity.

"A belly monster," John recited, "is a tiny monster that lives in your tummy. When it's time to eat something, the belly monster will start complaining. The only way to shut him up properly is to eat some food."

"What does it sound like?" Sherlock leaned forward excitedly.

"Like that," John pointed as Sherlock's tummy gave a mighty growl.

The littlest Holmes scowled and covered his tummy with his hands. " 'S not a 'belly monster'," he argued distastefully, mocking John's silly invention. " 'S my tummy. Told you I hadn't eaten properly in weeks."

John took a slice of toast from Sherlock's plate and lifted it towards Sherlock's mouth. "Taste it. Blackberry's your favorite."

Sherlock hesitated, but then he took a bite and smiled, quickly snatching the rest away from John.

The two children scavenged whatever they could find in the Holmes' kitchen. They found party rings and bakewell tarts and tea sandwiches and mince pies and jelly babies and biscuits and so much more until their little tummies couldn't hold any more food.

Sherlock yawned and leaned against John's shoulder. "John?"

"Yer?" John smiled at his young friend, delighted to see color return to the pale cheeks.

"I can't hear my belly monster anymore." Sherlock smiled.

"That's a good thing." John replied. "Now, how can we help our parents?"

Sherlock stretched and bounced up. "I think I've got it!" He cried enthusiastically, holding out his hand for John to take. "Let's go!"


	7. Holmaway

Hathaway was in the office, working late as usual, trying to get some work done for Lewis. He didn't even look up as he heard one of the outer doors click as the lock went. It was probably the last of the secretaries leaving for the night. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice the presence of another until a whirl of cloth caught his attention.

"Gone podgy, have you, James?"

The deep, familiar baritone made Hathaway jump. "God, Sherlock! Don't scare me like that!" He chuckled warmly. "I see you're already in. Sit!"

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and sat easily on the edge of Hathaway's desk. The blonde took a moment to look over his old friend from Cambridge. Sherlock had always been thin, but there was an unhealthiness to his image now. He was far too pale, his tight clothes only accentuating his lean, lithe figure. Hathaway blushed, sitting forward to disguise the hint of belly he'd developed since Lewis started working him through the night.

"Stuck?" Sherlock asked, twisting around to peer at the ancient dinosaur the Oxfordshire Yard called a computer.

"I'm not entirely out of my depth, but I could do with a breakthrough." Hathaway replied, suddenly unable to tear himself away from the man's profile. It made him realize how much he'd missed Holmes, one year his junior. The tussle of dark curls that could never be persuaded to be tame that licked his forehead, thinning his face, the cheekbones sharp, pale eyes and skin otherworldly, cupid's bow lips that hinted at the color pink, the only flush that was ever in his face-except if he were pissed. Hathaway had to smile, remembering the two years of laughs they'd had before Sherlock up and left Cambridge. "Why did you go?"

In that eerie way of his, Holmes answered the question without asking for clarity. Something else Hathaway missed about his genius former flatmate. "School was dull. I don't know how you survived it." His lean, bony fingers were at his ribs and suddenly, he was free of his jacket, revealing a deep, almost plumb-colored shirt. He slowly, without looking, rolled up the sleeves to perfect cuffs, showing off more of his fair, milky skin.

Hathaway wet his lips, distracted. Without even looking at him, Sherlock grinned. James groaned, feeling his trousers tighten. The damn bastard knew what he was doing! Sherlock was always so in control, and even if he wasn't, he sure as hell acted like it. Probably came from his haughty family, one a politician and the other a knight of the Queen's court. You couldn't be raised in such a house without acting self-important all the time.

Sherlock shoved the keyboard away with a swift, not exactly quiet, motion, knocking some papers to the floor, scattering evidence intake forms everywhere. He slid over until his suspended legs touched Hathaway's knees.

James tried for some coherency before all was lost. "Mind the papers, yeh? I'll have to clean that up."

"You still play guitar?" Sherlock mused, lifting Hathaway's dominant hand and turning it over, examining the pads with gentle prods. The dark haired man's fingers were cool against Hathaway's, and he sighed. "Yes, of course you do. I heard your band plays…what is it? Blues and world, or something."

"World." Hathaway chuckles, trying to force his hand away from Sherlock. Of course, he can't. Sherlock has that way about him. You just can't do something he doesn't want you to. "You always hated it."

"Incorrect." Sherlock replied, brushing his soft lips against Hathaway's knuckles.

Hathaway felt shivers going straight to his cock, and he knew Sherlock, somehow, in a way that no other detective in the world could, felt it happening. Sherlock took this as an indication to continue, lowering his baritone to make it sound even sexier. "I hated when you played while I was working, love."

Love. One word, and Hathaway knew he didn't stand a chance. Just like that night, so long ago, at Cambridge. Safe and home in their dorm…

"_I can't believe the bloody queers!" James was shouting, throwing his papers about. "No bloody business!"_

"_You're shouting. Is this going to go on all night?" Sherlock sounded peeved, bent over his microscope, nose inches away from some harmful chemical. In their flat. As usual. "I don't have time for you, James. I need to finish this up."_

"_Like bloody hell you do!" James snarled, throwing a textbook at the far wall, inches away from the telly. "Someone just tried to __**pick me up**__! When I'm __**not**__ a bloody queer!"_

"_Of course," Sherlock drawled._

"_Will, you know Will? My mate?"_

"_McEwan?" Sherlock looked up for half a second, rising elegantly before descending again with a thoughtful frown. "I knew it."_

"_McEwan, yeh. He tried to bloody __**kiss me**__!"_

"_Oh, the bloody cooties. Back in year three, are we?"_

_James stopped stomping around the flat. "You don't give a rat's arse, do yeh?"_

"_Good deduction, Hathaway," Sherlock purred, cocking his head. "One might think you were going to be a detective sergeant."_

"_Stop that!" James ordered, yelling at his flatmate now. He had no time for Sherlock's nonsense._

"_Perhaps I should have said 'detective inspector,' hmm?" Sherlock glanced up again. He almost couldn't dodge the punch. _

_James was out for blood, throwing another one. Sherlock danced around him. "Easy, James."_

"_For once, just for bloody __**once **__can you pretend you care?" James shouted._

_Sherlock dodged. "I do care. Just…my cultures…"_

"_Some bloody __**queer**__ hit on me, and you treat it like cooties?"_

"_It's all it is."_

"_Well, unlike __**you**__, of no sex life whatsoever, __**I**__ like women!"_

_Sherlock stopped James' punch with unexpected strength, his arm barely shaking as he held James' fist. "Right. As if any bloody __**girl**__ does something for you."_

_James hesitated, his arm dropping. "But…it does…"_

_Soft lips pressed against his, two hardening cocks rubbed together, clothes came off, and Sherlock forgot about his cultures and James forgot about women. _

"You made me leave the priesthood," Hathaway stated as he came out of his memories. He jumped, to find Sherlock preparing to straddle him, pants unzipped, exposing black silk briefs. "I left the priesthood that night. Then you dropped out of Cambridge two years later."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock huffed, rubbing against the bulge in Hathaway's trousers.

Hathaway drew Sherlock down towards him, his hand on the back of the pale neck, drawing it close. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's oh-so-sensitive pressure point, eliciting a moan from the detective. "We haven't seen each other in years, and then you and this boy wind up at Oxford…"

"You mean John?' Sherlock groaned out as Hathaway used his other hand to press against the small of Sherlock's back, pulling him closer. "Straight as a board."

Hathaway tilted up to meet eager, soft lips. They were kissing, Sherlock riding him to an extent, he holding on, letting Sherlock work because _God_, did the man know how to please! He'd missed the ease of being with Sherlock, the familiarity of it all, the response he'd get from Sherlock as he wanted it, because the man _knew_, in the way he knew all things. He just knew.

Hathaway reluctantly pulled away and bit down hard on Sherlock's neck, just at the collarbone. Sherlock moaned, digging his nails into Hathaway's shoulder. "Good luck covering that up in the morning." The blonde purred, kissing and licking the bite to intensify pleasure.

Sherlock was literally shaking beneath him. Hathaway had to admit he loved making Sherlock come apart like this. "Thanks," the dark haired angel replied sardonically.

Hathaway drew back. "We can't do this here, not at work." Sherlock bucked at his hips, making him groan at the friction between their cocks. James moaned, tossing his head back. Sherlock began to nip his neck, almost pleadingly.

"Please?" Those sad, puppy-dog eyes that James could never resist. "I can't wait. There must be a way. Please, Jamie?"

Oh God, that nickname. Hathaway was done, and Sherlock knew it, too, because he ducked down and bit at the bulge in Hathaway's trousers. James grit his teeth and grunted, pushing Sherlock down under the desk. He could feel Sherlock relieve him of his pants and pull down his briefs. He leaned back, one hand fisted in Sherlock's hair, tilting his neck over the back of his chair, trying not to thrust as Sherlock licked the length of his shaft and took him inside. Hathaway tried to fuck Sherlock's mouth, but the detective growled and pressed his hands against Hathaway's thighs.

James sat up and looked at the man deep-throating him on his knees before him. Then, he came. He fell to the floor and finished Sherlock quickly, letting Holmes fuck his mouth because he loved it. He swallowed the cum because there was no way he was going to be cleaning _that_ up and grabbed some tissues so they could clean up a bit. Sitting under the desk, at Scotland Yard after hours, they laughed.

Sherlock reached over to poke James' protruding belly. "You need to go on a diet."

James laughed and poked Sherlock's ribs. "You need to eat more."

"Mmm, not tonight, though," Sherlock mused thoughtfully, wetting his lips and rubbing his concave stomach. "It would ruin the taste of you on my lips."

"Agreed." Hathaway purred, leaning forward to passionately kiss Sherlock.

Then, it came to him. "Hathaway, you are a dolt!" He exclaimed to himself, flying back into his chair.

Sherlock chuckled and lay his head in James' lap with a yawn, sleeping for the first time in three days.

(And yep, let's not even ask how he explained Sherlock to Lewis the next day. That's a tale for another time.)


	8. You Would Make a Good Dalek

Day 1

Subject still under influence of our drugs. Age, height, weight irrelevant. Remove the outer coverings of Subject while Subject is still sleeping to expose Subject's parts. Subject is a human male. One head, two arms, two legs, one heart. HEART!

Does the Subject's heart beat for life, or does it beat for love? LOVE! There is no room for love among the Daleks!

Subject is waking. Subject is agitated, dazed, angry. But Subject is quiet, two eyes moving fast. A brain! A brain! Subject is a genius! Perfect for full conversion!

Say: "You would make a good Dalek."

Subject retorts: "I won't be made into one of you. You're pathetic."

Say: "You would make a good Dalek."

"On what grounds?" Subject is naked, but shows no fear. No fear! No fear for the Daleks!

Say: "You do not need your human body. All that matters is the brain to you."

Subject considers. Considers!

Subject is laughing! "I won't be transformed into a walking trashcan!"

"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"

There is a master of the Daleks, someone above the supreme Dalek. Someone who says Subject must not be harmed. He must be turned into a Dalek, but not if he is boring. There shall be no boring Daleks. No boring Daleks!

Say: "You will put on your clothes and come with us."

Subject is resistant. "No."

Subject is like cattle and must be prodded. Shock at 20 milliamps. Subject contorts with a cry but will not move.

Say: "You will come with us or the shock shall not stop!" Shock Subject again.

Subject gets up and dresses, grumbling, and then follows us along. There is a good cage for Subject until Subject is needed.

"I won't go in there." Subject crosses his arms in Earth gesture of annoyance. "I want to return to where I came from, please."

Shove Subject into the cage.

"Hey! That's very rude!"

Say: "You will make a good Dalek."

Now we must walk away. The master of the Daleks wants to have a little fun. The master of the Daleks should be seen in a crown.


	9. Empty Stomachs in December

_Did you really have to drag me out without breakfast this morning?_ John griped in his head while they stood on the sidewalk outside 221B waiting for a cab. _Did it really have to be done? God, it's so bloody cold._

"Yes, I did," Sherlock answered his thought, sliding that ridiculous neck deeper into his scarf. "We've got a case, now, so quit your bellyaching."

"Well, excuse me if I bellyache," John grumbled. "It is empty, after all. And it's bloody cold out here!"

Sherlock energetically raised his hand for the taxi that was passing by and opened up the door. "Well, it is December. Cold is to be expected." He sniffed. "I suspect there will be snow. Come along, John." And he slid into the cab.

John rolled his eyes—_What I put up with to get an adrenaline rush_—and walked towards the cab. At least it would be warm in there.

As John slid into the cab, he realized that the car was just as cold, if not colder, than it was outside. Sherlock was sitting stonily in the corner, trying not to shiver. John closed the door. "Oi, mate! Why's it so cold?"

"Sorry, sir," the cabbie replied, sounding as cold as John felt. "The heat in me cab's shot. Hasn't worked for a week. I'm to reduce ya fare." As he said this, he lifted a warm mug of coffee to his lips and drank.

John grit his teeth. "Wonderful, thanks." Nope, not even going to try to hide his distaste. Not at all.

The doctor had never been so happy to be at a crime scene. As soon as the cab pulled up, he and Sherlock stepped out and practically ran over to where the dead body lay on the street. No bystanders today. Just a lot of bobbies in parkas. Lestrade was humorously bundled up, like a little kid dressed by his mum—huge igloo coat in police blue, earmuffs, gloves, and a scarf. John probably would've laughed aloud if he wasn't so damn cold—his warmest coat was a leather jacket, and Sherlock's great coat did little to fend off from subzero temperatures. Neither of them owned a hat.

"Details, Lestrade," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, trying to fight off the cold. The wind tugged his dark curls in all directions, tinting his cheeks, lips, and ears a bright, rosy red, which John knew would soon turn to blue. He dismally reflected that, if he wasn't so preoccupied with shivering, he'd be fiercely hungry after being forced out of the house without breakfast. Having been a soldier, he was keen to eat every meal he could get, and was not enthused about having to skip one. It wouldn't be the first time, but he always hoped it was the last.

"Dead professional," Lestrade rattled off. "What have you got?"

Sherlock bent down over the body. John could almost hear the long joints crack. The consulting detective knelt, examined, lifted, poked, and prodded, blissfully unaware he was currently sitting in about six inches of dirty, powdery snow, tinted red with blood. "John," Sherlock ordered.

John groaned internally and crouched down. He did the quickest analysis of his life, then had to redo it, finding his brain numbed by cold. Sherlock huffed impatiently. Finally, John looked at him. "Been dead 24 hours, at most. Blunt force trauma to the head. She'd been sick—I can smell vomit and beer. Cause of death was the blow to the head." He stood up, feeling his knees crack in protest. Sherlock shot up.

"You're looking for a man with no priors—all of this is rehearsed. A coward, not very bulky, very nervous and jittery, given the unsteadiness of the wound. He'll be a ginger, with a pilot's license. The killing was swift, but deliberate. He's dangerous angry." Sherlock stretched his arms above his head. John noticed that Sherlock's nose, ears, and lips were turning blue. The air was getting colder.

"Sherlock and I need to get warm," he told the inspector. Lestrade nodded, waving them away distractedly. John was about to hail a cab when Sherlock stopped him.

Sherlock pointed across the street to a small café. John nodded. The two men practically sprinted across the street.

The heat blasted them as they walked in. John and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as they went to a secluded corner booth and peeled off their jackets. John realized Sherlock had picked the booth just under the heating duct and was very thankful for the man's observations. A waitress came to ask if they'd like anything, and both men asked for tea. Soon, the tea was brought.

John and Sherlock lifted the mugs to their lips, chancing a sip. Sherlock made a face as he swallowed, but John loved the scalding heat and quickly took another. Eventually, Sherlock began to sip frequently. An easy silence lay between the two friends until they began to thaw. Sherlock drank the last few drops down and lay back in his chair, frowning as he finally removed his gloves. John gave another sip of his tea before trying to talk to Sherlock.

"Any clue where to find our man?"

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "Several. Four so far."

"Anywhere I know?"

"His flat, most likely," Sherlock replied blandly. "It's going to snow, so that's where most human beings will be for the next hour."

John hummed, finishing his tea. He thought he'd smelled snow on the air. "No chance of us having a kip by the fire, then?"

To his surprise, Sherlock laughed warmly. "God, no. He'll be an ideal target, waiting out the snowstorm. I'd hate to go after him otherwise."

"That's right. He's a crafty bugger." John remembered details on the corpse, and nodded—mostly to himself.

"Quite," Sherlock stretched his long limbs, his legs briefly touching John's under the table. "Well, I need another cuppa. Fancy breakfast?"

((I got this idea from "The Abbey Grange." Not sure if Johnlock. Not sure to continue. I have a hunger kink. I do. And it's weird. But screw it. Weird is awesome.))


	10. Moriarty's Shop of Horrors Skip Snippet1

** Scene:** Sherlock and John are in 221B. John has procured some fresh body parts from the morgue and a few sleeves of recently donated blood. Sherlock is slouched in his chair, vines growing from his back, little ones from his arms, leaves on his legs and in his hair. He is a very pale, sickly green color with no blooms. He looks tired.

** John:** Come on, Sherlock...

** Sherlock:** No.

** John:** *waving some body parts* They're tasty...

** Sherlock:** *tired of being asked* I said, no.

** John:** *sighs* All right. *goes to cut his finger* How about some blood? *squeezes until it oozes out, holds it in front of Sherlock*

** Sherlock:** *is transfixed momentarily, the plant in him begging for sustenance, but he ultimately refuses, turning his head up* No! I won't!

** John:** I'm sure it tastes just like chicken.

** Sherlock:** *glares at him* Those are HUMAN, you know.

** John:** I'm aware. But they're dead. Only newly dead. And I didn't kill them.

** Sherlock:** *blinking blearily at John, looking weaker and weaker by the second*

** John:** Look, Sherlock, you need to eat something. At least a few drops of my blood.

** Sherlock:** If I eat, I'll grow. And I'm much too weak to grow anymore. If I do, I'll die.

** John:** Oh, Sherlock...

** Sherlock:** No! You don't get it, do you?

** John:** What?

** Sherlock:** The plant! Moriarty Two! IT did this to me! Poisoned me, kept me about to play with! All while it's gorging itself on prisoners Moriarty brings to it. Innocent people, being devoured by an over-sized, other-worldly venus flytrap. *wilts further* John...there must be a way to break the plant's curse! We have to stop it!

** John:** *confused* Why?

** Sherlock:** Because it's not here to cater to the human race. My instincts are very clear about that. It was so disgusting for me to nibble at day-old corpses. My stomach was nauseous! No, it wants fresh, human blood. And lots of it. No, Two is here to eat the world!


	11. MSHorrors: Skip Snippet 2

** Scene:** John has been trying to feed Sherlock for a week now and it's been unsuccessful. Sherlock's roots haven't started to grow yet.

** John:** *walking into the room, carrying a few bags of blood* You don't look so good.

** Sherlock:** *lying down on the couch* I'm quite all right, thank you.

** John:** You need to eat.

** Sherlock:** I had a finger two weeks ago.

** John:** *frustrated* All right, that's enough!

** Sherlock:** *shocked, sits up*

** John:** I've tried being patient, but goddamn it! They said if I fed you blood-which I've been trying to do-you'd be my willing slave! Just like Twoey!

** Sherlock:** *exasperated* Look, John, that's not Two's goal...

** John:** And I'm not that demanding!

** Sherlock:** Could've fooled me.

** John:** *glares* Look, Sherlock. All I'm asking for is just enough money to live off of. I don't know how you plants..."deliver," but please, oh please? For me?

** Sherlock:** *softens as he deduces John's intentions* All right. I can deliver. If it's money you want, *nods to the table* take my card.

** John:** *happily grabs it and offers a blood bag to Sherlock.*

** Sherlock:** *holds it awkwardly a few feet out in front of him*

** John:** What?

** Sherlock:** Ew.

** John:** What's 'ew'?

** Sherlock:** First of all, *indicating the slimy blood bag* it's cold.

** John:** Oh.

** Sherlock:** Second of all, I don't know if you noticed, but I don't really look like Two.

** John:** No. Despite the green and the occasional leaf, you're human.

** Sherlock:** Yes. I am. Two poisoned me, and now I'm part plant. That's why I won't indulge my horrible appetite for human flesh. I don't want to run the rusk of fully becoming a plant.

** John:** Oh. But what about the corpses you nibbled at?

** Sherlock:** Well, while I was out on the streets, I had to keep myself from fainting. Disgusting, but it had to be done. If I were to lose conscious, someone would surely see and report.

** John:** Oh.

** Sherlock:** Don't feed me, John. Please.


	12. Skip Snippet 3

** Scene:** 211B on a stormy night. John is working on the computer and Sherlock is sitting on the couch, using a hedge trimmer to cut down his vines and branches. Since he is still refusing to eat, not only is he deathly thin, but his leaves are wilting and he is yellow-green with illness.

** John:** Doesn't that hurt?

** Sherlock:** Hmm?

** John:** To cut your vines? Does it hurt?

** Sherlock:** Not if I keep away from the parts attached to my skin. If I just snip the ends, it's fine.

** Addition:** There is silence for a while until a rumble of thunder. And then...

** John:** Did you hear that?

** Sherlock:** What?

** John:** That growling.

** Sherlock:** The thunder? John, you scare too easily to be living with a flesh-eating plant.

** John:** You don't eat. Ah...

** Sherlock:** No I don't...John? Why are you...?

** John:** *chuckling* That was your stomach.

** Ambiance:** The growling sounds again.

** Sherlock:** Yes. I suppose it was. *looking pointedly at John* It's also understandable, seeing as I haven't eaten in several weeks now.

** John:** Even plants need food. You'll die if I don't feed you and soon.

** Sherlock:** I don't want to rely on human flesh for food. *groans and holds his stomach* But...I am starving. Look at how wilted I am! *chuckling*

** John:** I'm positive a little of my blood won't turn you into a monster.

** Sherlock:** *the plant in him realizes its hunger and is VERY interested in John's proposition. Sherlock licks his lips, but...* Be strong, Sherlock, old boy. Be strong.

** John:** If I can hear your stomach, this is getting very bad. How long since...?

** Sherlock:** My last meal was a finger...about a month ago.

** John:** Good God. I've had houseplants die on me long before that!

** Sherlock:** I'm no ordinary houseplant. And neither is Two.

** John:** I know that.

** Ambiance:** Sherlock's stomach again, louder.

** John:** I'm beginning to wonder if it's just the plant in you that's hungry.

** Sherlock:** Of course it is. I rarely feel hungry. I only eat as a necessity.

** John:** It's necessary now.

** Sherlock:** *clasping his hands* There must be a way to break the curse. I'm so annoyed just being stuck here!

** John:** What if the cure is something simple?

** Sherlock:** Such as?

** John:** A certain blood type. Or blood from a certain person. *gives himself a paper cut*

** Sherlock:** *sees the blood* Please don't, John. I'm almost too hungry to be civil. John, don't come closer. John!

** John:** What, Sherlock?

** Sherlock:** What if it doesn't work?

** John:** Then at least it will make you healthy. Come on, Sherlock. A few drops of blood won't turn you into a monster.


	13. Skip Snippet 4

** Sherlock:** What if it does, John? What if I drink your blood and I become a monster like Two?

** Ambiance:** Lightning flashes, turning off the power. John and Sherlock are in the dark.

** John:** I'm not afraid of you.

** Sherlock:** You should be.

** John:** Why? You've never given me any reason to fear you. You don't demand to be fed-in fact, you refuse. You gave me your card.

** Sherlock:** John, I only-

** John:** Even though you're weak and contained in this flat day and night, you've been rather civil to me.

** Sherlock:** The curse makes me part plant. I know I'm not going anywhere.

** John:** I know you won't eat me.

** Sherlock:** What makes you certain? I couldn't live with myself if I attacked, killed, and ate you. I'd kill myself!

** John:** You're still human. I think you give your plant part too much credit.

** Sherlock:** Perhaps you are right.

** John:** So...can we try this? *holding out his bleeding finger* Please? Just a few drops, to appease?

** Sherlock:** *sighs and drops to his knees* Very well. *gently takes John's wrist, drawing the blood to his lips* I want to be cured. I want strength. The growing is tiresome. I want my own life back. *slowly laps at the blood at first, then latches on and begins to drink. The sickly green becomes healthier with each drop, the leaves in his hair perking up, blossoms beginning to bloom on him.*

** John:** Sherlock...you're a pretty plant.

** Sherlock:** *continues to suck John's blood reverently. Buds are blooming, and he is becoming more robust. Green begins to fade to pink.*

** John:** *is watching this transformation intently*

** Ambiance:** There is a hush in the flat as Sherlock "blooms." He becomes less and less plant-like with each drop of blood, getting pinker and pinker until finally, he is human.

** John:** *draws back his finger, staring*

** Sherlock:** *looks at himself* I-I'm me again! *stands* Ugh. I feel nauseous. Excuse me. *runs to the kitchen sink and vomits up blood and leaves and dirt and spores*

** John:** *making tea* Can I interest you in human food?

** Sherlock:** *leaning weakly against the counter* I will take tea, and perhaps toast. I really must get back to work. Now that I am human again, I will not have to be confined to the flat.

** John:** See, I told you.

** Sherlock:** What?

** John:** A little blood didn't turn you into a monster.

** Sherlock:** *smiling* You don't know what my human side is like.


	14. Miss Sherlock Holmes

"If I were to ask a favor of you, John, would you comply?"

I looked at the dark-haired, gray-eyed beauty before me, wondering how I could possibly say no. I took her hand, letting her deduce my thoughts.

"Marry me." She demanded.

I was completely taken aback. "Wh-what?"

Miss Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I'm quite certain you heard me, doctor. I want you to marry me. I would prefer to publicly keep my own name of course, so I can be found easier by my clients, but to have a legitimate practice-such as it is-I need a man to front it."

"You wish to use me!" I was angry, and rightfully so, wrenching my hands from hers and turning away.

"Oh no, my dear John." Her soft words in the gentle voice would be my undoing on multiple occasions. "I feel a deep affection for you that is akin to love, and I believe that, given time, I can love you. I do not trust others easily, particularly men."

I turned to her and cupped my hand, cradling her pale cheek. Miss Sherlock leaned into my hand. I began to think, as I looked into the misty gray eyes, that she had been hurt once by a man, and had no reason to trust them. "Yes," I replied, smiling. "Of course I will."

Miss Sherlock jumped, and her eyes became serious, searching. "I will not be conventional by any means," She informed me. "I will not be a housewife. I will not be as a bitch kept for breeding. I will satisfy you, as is a wife's duty. I will cook, if you wish. I will obey, if it will not endanger myself or my work. But I will not be taken advantage of. There will be quarrels, I can promise you. People will talk."

"People don't matter," I informed her, touching her cheek with my lips. "All that matters to me is you."

Miss Sherlock gently guided my face until my lips were over hers. And we kissed.

"Then, outside my consulting practice, I am Mrs. Watson." She said.


	15. Trapped in You: Just a Dance

Sherlock carefully laid out his things like he'd done every day this semester. Chemistry text book right next to his open notes, the useless novel he was reading for a core English class upside-down behind a half-finished sports drink, an uneaten and untouched tuna salad sandwich lying on top of his sweater. Finally, he could take out his chemicals.

The seventeen year old squeaked his desk chair as he opened the drawer in which he kept his precious supplies. He hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks, and his hands shook as he removed the mahogany case from amongst paper clips, pens, and other remains of life. He was far too famished to be hungry, and the sandwich, though tempting, would remain untouched. Forever.

Sherlock unfastened the gold clasp and opened the case. Inside, amongst expensive and regal red velvet, was a perfect medical syringe, sterile and free from any disease. In the compartment above was a deadly concoction of morphine and cocaine he called "The Seven Percent Solution." He'd made this last week, saving it for a special day.

Sherlock stuck out his arm and turned it around in the air. His eyes fell over cigarette burns and ugly scars and the telltale pockmarks of the needle. His veins should have been visible beneath his papery skin, but his (former) friend, Sebastian, had blabbed to their Calculous instructor and he'd had to spend an agonizing hour in Headmaster Lyttelton's office on the phone with parents who didn't really care about what had happened and then a lovely chat with the school's councilor about "school" and "anxiety" and "ego." This had prevented him from going to the lunchroom and having one final cup of tea with Victor and drinking enough water to nearly burst his bladder. A tear almost began to form as he thought of that missed cuppa with his last friend in the world, but passed. A sports drink would have to do.

Sherlock choked down the rest of the deplorable stuff and let the bottle crash onto his desk. He looked at his arm again, satisfied that the blue veins were now visible. Sherlock took up the syringe. What need was there to leave a note? No one cared for him, anyway. He dutifully filled the syringe with his solution to everything and tapped the end for good measure.

Sherlock touched the tip of the needle to his exposed vein and let it penetrate, carefully pressing the plunger full of fluid. As he felt it go into his veins, he smiled faintly and closed his eyes as he finally slipped away from this wretched world.

_—

John was too young to be a soldier. That much he knew.

What was once an uneventful stakeout had become, within the course of half an hour, a dangerous battle.

Just over ten hours ago, John and his mates had groaned internally as their commanding officer explained their mission. Stakeout in civilian territory. The orders were to remain neutral unless attacked. Which, given the region, was highly unlikely. While they were hiking, Smith had suggested they bend the rules a little and have a shot. Everyone knew he was joking, but everyone still wished they could.

John was the youngest in his regiment, and the youngest of this mission of seven men. Smith was twenty, Groves was twenty-three, Lawrence was twenty-five, Bradley was twenty-one, Mckendrick was twenty-seven, Moors was thirty, and Knaggs was thirty-five. They set up camp and huddled around, eating military-issue sandwiches and talking of home. Knaggs had three daughters and a loving wife. Moors, McKendrick, and Groves were engaged. Lawrence had a girlfriend in the Navy. Only Smith, Bradley, and himself were unattached. But Bradley had a twin sister with cerebral palsy whom he cared for dearly, and Smith had a loving family of twelve to go home to. John had no one. Not anymore. He smartly stayed quiet about his home life, lied about a home he'd never see. Not with his father out of work, his mother and older sister constantly drunk, and a dead younger brother. Collin had been John's best friend, but cancer had taken him early-he was only ten, John thirteen, when he was diagnosed. It only took him a year to waste away and die. John had never felt comfortable at home after that, so he took to the army as soon as they would have him.

Now, his life was flashing before his eyes-or, was that just the explosions? He felt deaf and dumb. Why should anyone have to die? Why wouldn't everyone just die? John was studying medicine, but he was still learning from Megalos, the senior medical practitioner, who was conveniently not here. And there was Smith, bleeding out.

John held his hand as the golden sand mixed with blood, the explosions and cries of the Afghanis like a dream. Smith looked up at him, crying but telling John not to cry, that everything would be all right. And then, Smith's eyes saw nothing. And then, Megaos was in his ear, screaming that it was a simple wound, when how could he have known? He was still learning.

The honorable discharge due to medical reasons came later. Now, his commanding officer, Megalos, and several others were pulling him away from the unseeing Smith, away from the mass of dead bodies that had once been men.

And John never heard the end of Knaggs' story about the squirrel his daughters took in. He never heard the story of how Bradley had found out he was allergic to bananas. He never heard the story of Lawrence's high school production of Little Shop of Horrors. Because the men he knew were now on slabs in a morgue somewhere.

And John Watson was just another unfinished story.


	16. Just a Dance 2

"Are you ready to talk today?"

It was the cheery nurse. He hated the cheery nurse. Sherlock glared out from under his fringe of untrimmed hair. Like an animal, he refused to be touched, to talk, even-if the mood struck him, for he was fond of cat-like cleanliness-to bathe. To further the simile, he only snarled in reply.

"Okay!" The cheery nurse pipped. "We'll try again tomorrow, yes?" And off she went, fluttering like an excited bird, looking for someone more sociable than he.

Sherlock curled further into himself and sighed, leaning his chin on his knees. He remembered closing his eyes in his dorm room as the world became hazy, his heart rate slowing, the creepy, peaceful smile he could feel on his lips as all his suffering ended…

And then, he woke up. Surrounded by unnatural beeping machinery and worried doctors, but no family. No family at all. Oh, there was a call, a phone held hurriedly to his ear. "Are you all right?" sounded more like "how could you do such a thing and embarrass us?" from his mum. "Are you insane?" was from his elder brother, Mycroft, whose pets had no doubt found and brought him here. And God forbid he got a call from his father.

Sherlock should have let it pass as an overdose. He could've dealt easily with the anger of his brother and the embarrassment of his mother. But, of course, the nurses had to just overhear him talking to Mycroft on a phone provided for him: "Well, waking up in a hospital isn't exactly what I intended, Mycroft. If I had a choice, I wouldn't be awake at all." And just when Sherlock had been about to explain that, in retrospect, maybe he shouldn't have attempted to commit suicide with so simple a method as overdose (he'd been doing just fine starving to death-longer process, but much more painful, much more of the pain he evidently deserved), the phone was ripped from his hands and he was whisked away to a psyche ward.

At first, he'd refused food, but Mycroft told him that, if he began to eat, he would convince the NHS to get him out and back to Cambridge where he belonged. So, he began to eat everything that was offered to him, whether it came orally or through a tube in the hopes that Mycroft's plan would work. It didn't. Sherlock had really screwed up by mentioning he'd wanted to commit suicide, and they were not going to let him out. Sherlock was back to refusing oral food and, when the nurses weren't looking, tearing out the feeding tubes.

This metod worked for a while until the doctors saw no improvement and began setting up the tubes to give twice as much while he slept. And Sherlock knew, because he always woke up feeling full instead of the emptiness he'd become accustomed to. So, Sherlock gave up and stayed difficult until he could come up with a better plan.

_—-

Hospitals were boring. John knew he didn't want to be a doctor after all if this was the life ahead of him. It seemed so boring, so predictable. Bring breakfast, check vitals, check machines, converse with patient, check charts, ask about any concerns of patient, bring lunch, repeat, bring dinner, repeat, inform patient of terminal illness, kep patient comfortable, bring corpse to morgue.

John couldn't wait to be a corpse. He couldn't wait to be with his mates.

He was excited to know what his cause of death would be. Maybe cancer, like Collin. He really wanted to die by bullet wound, but in a civilian hospital, chances were slim. Maybe he'd get lucky and one of the staff would go insane and bring a sawed-off shotgun to the hospital and kill everyone. Yeah, that would be pretty fucking awesome. But impossible. Maybe. John could dream, couldn't he?

Every time a loud noise sounded, John screamed. The words, according to his therapist, were "unintelligible," but John knew the message. "Run! Smith! Run! Everyone get out of here! Run! Live! Don't die! Please! It's not fair! It isn't fair!" That's what John was trying to say. Maybe it only came out as animal noises. It seemed so, going by the way they treated him.

No one came to see him. Maybe that was for the best. Sometimes, John thought he saw Collin, standing beside him.

That was enough of a comfort, after all.


	17. Collapse

**Collapse, a SUPER short!fic**

The hunger would be unbearable, were he not already used to it.

"You'll die if you don't eat something soon."

Long fingers trailed their way down his bare chest, watching his ribs appear when he breathed.

"No time. I've got a case. It's important."

It was the heartache he couldn't take. _That_ was the unbearable feeling.

"John would not want you to starve to death looking for him."

Sherlock glared at the official detective. "I would be glad to accept it." He didn't know quite why he said that. John was the one who usually worried about innuendos.

Sherlock didn't. Sherlock didn't have a muzzle.

It had been three weeks. And Sherlock had only had one spoonful of honey in that time. No other food. Half a teaspoon of sugar in his tea.

Sherlock hadn't slept, either. He worked through the night to find John. Because he _would_ find John, or die trying.

Lestrade didn't see that. No one saw that.

John would see that.

It was why Sherlock was running down the corridor. Two weeks more had passed, and Sherlock was weak, famished, exhausted. His blinks lasted forever. His skin was pale, his bones fragile. He'd broken his finger too easily. It was wrapped in a cumbersome bandage. He felt sick, his head spinning madly on an axis.

No matter. John. He had to find John.

"Sherlock!"

The voice was relieved. Sherlock turned, and his eyes landed on John. Sherlock's eyes were only soft in their natural state when he looked at John. Sherlock smiled.

And then, he collapsed.


	18. A Post-Reichenbach Conversation

**A Post-Reichenbach Conversation**

I think I would have been less surprised if I realized I'd been followed by a living. breathing statue in that moment. Watching Sherlock go from zero to sixty in half a second was still enough to startle me.

Indeed, he went from sitting languidly, his fingers at his lips, his eyes closed peacefully, to sitting forward, towards me. I drew back half a metre, still wondering if he was real.

"I would have been ready to die for you," And his voice holds all of his deductive reasoning so that I know it must be true. But…I'm almost unconvinced. It's not like him.

Then again, none of it was.

"I was, very much, ready to sacrifice everything. There was no doubt about that. To keep Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and you, most of all, safe, there is nothing I would not have given."

For a second, I stare hard at his exposed arms. I don't miss the faded scars of knives and worse, where, having little medical knowledge, he'd stitched a wound wrong. Could see those marks clear as day. At his chest and waist, his shirt looser, contusions on his neck from strangulation or worse, his overall skinniness as he shakes imperceptively. I'm quite certain he himself is not aware of it. His face, thinner now for his three years' absence, tinged white with the evidence of many illnesses, his cheekbones poking out from hollowed cheeks. And I know that he had, indeed, sacrificed everything to see us all safe. Or, nearly everything. I can see, as a doctor, a soldier, and a friend, that he has given everything he could afford to give; blood, meals, rest.

He clears his throat, his hands clasped. I notice them shaking, and he notices too, because he clasps his knuckles tighter. "John," He looks up at me, and then away in the same second. "I would have given everything, had I believed that you would survive it."

I want to stop him. I feel a need to stop him. "Sherlock…"

He holds up his hand for silence. "My death-my _true_ death-would bring you nothing but pain and suffering. I knew that you would not give up on me. I faked my suicide, which is a truly terrible thing to do, and I apologize." He sighs, shakily. "I would not have-if I thought you'd be better off…" His eyes find mine again, the irises darting about. I know him well enough to see that he is reading me, but his eyes are soft like a child's. He's looking to be needed. "Do I hope for too much?" He chuckles, hiding his feelings.

I will let him be needed. Because I do need him. Like it or not. "Not at all," I reply. "It's great to see you, Sherlock."

The detective's eyes fixate on me, and I can see tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "John."

And that word alone speaks volumes. I stand and open my arms. "Come here, you stupid git."

Sherlock obeys, nearly falling into me as he throws his weight on mine. We stand like that for a while, despite our sexual orientations, enjoying the feel, the smell, the sound of each other. Something we have both missed for three years.

Finally, when it has been long enough (too long for Sherlock, but he has let it pass), I pull back and smile at him. "All right, I want to hear the whole story. And then, I'm going to fix you up properly. I regret not teaching you how to stitch yourself."

Sherlock starts, then laughs, looking at his badly stitched arm. "Yes, I had no idea. Websites can only tell you so much."

"A website is no stand-in or a tangible doctor." I take his bony wrist gently and turn it over before looking up into his eyes again. "All right, sit and tell me. Then I patch you up and we go to dinner."

"Angelo's?" Sherlock asks casually, returning to his chair and resuming his typical languid pose.

"Always," I reply, and it's almost as if he'd never left, that there was no three-year absence keeping us apart. I was no longer alone, and neither was he. Something changed between us, then, though I cannot tell you what.

Sherlock smiles. "Just like old times."


	19. The Secret P1

It was a month after Sherlock's suicide, a month after John had written the mournful blog entry. A month. An entire month.

_I'm not dead, John. SH_

John read the text, and almost had a heart attack in Tesco's. He looked at the number, and saw that it was the right one. But it could be Mycroft. Or someone could have hacked the number. One of Moriarty's associates, maybe. John tried to ignore it, but somehow, he couldn't. So he pressed "reply."

Why?

His phone was quiet for a while. Finally, the text came. Just as John was about to give up hope.

Moriarty threatened you. Had a sniper at your head, ones watching Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too. Couldn't lose you. Solved the problem. SH

By dying?

I am sorry, but it had to be done. SH

_Where are you?_

_Paris. SH_

John smirked. _Lover's paradise? Is there something you want to tell me?_

_Of course not. Am on case. SH_

The army doctor smiled, and felt his heart warm and alive in his chest for the first time in what felt like years. He could almost hear the annoyed hitch in the baritone through the text. Through _words on a screen_. Only Sherlock could do that to him, make him hear his voice through a text.

I wish you could be here. All the young lovers are tedious. SH

John had to stifle a laugh at are paying my cell bill once it comes, Sherlock. I don't think I'm covered for international texts.

Fair enough. SH

And just because of that conversation, John went on living. He (almost cheerfully) continued to live in 221B, keeping things the way they were. He tried to stay in contact with Greg. He tried to date. But he couldn't stop hoping for a text from Sherlock. It was always the highlight of his day.

He was at a quiet shift at the surgery two weeks later when he got the next text.

_Keep this a secret. SH_

Keep what a secret?

_That I am alive. It's crucial to the safety of so many. SH_

_Yours being paramount?_

_Ours. Yours. SH_

John smiled, touched by the admission, the heart behind the brain.I'll keep your secret. Don't worry.

Good. They're watching you, looking for signs of happiness. SH

So I can't be happy?

Not about me being alive. SH

I can keep up the act. I did drama in sixth form.

Good. SH

It took another month for Sherlock to text him again, and it had to be in the middle of the night. Well, that was Sherlock for you. But John reached out for his phone anyway. News from Sherlock was always welcome, time of day or night be damned.

_Ways to reduce a fever? SH_

John rubbed his eyes and read the text again. He was suddenly filled with concern. _Sherlock, you okay?_

_Sick with a fever. Very tired. SH_

_Where are you?_

_Southern Italy. I was in Venice chasing the Raccoon, one of Moriarty's agents. I got sick, and Mycroft sent me to the south of Italy to recover in the countryside. SH_

_Mycroft knows too?_

_I needed his money. SH_

John laughed in spite of the hour. Good thing I haven't seen him lately. I can't hide anything from either of you.

That made me laugh. I thought you should know. SH

_How can I reduce my fever? SH_

_How high is it?_

_Not terribly inconvenient, but fairly troublesome. SH_

_That helps._

_No thermometer. SH_

_Right. Well, cold cloths should help. Keep hydrated. Eat something. And I don't care that you're on a case._

_All right. SH_

John was almost asleep when Sherlock texted him again.

Don't lose hope, John. SH

So John didn't.


	20. The Secret P2

It only took two weeks of not hearing from Sherlock for John to panic and break his own (self-inflicted) rule about texting Sherlock. Up until today, John had not initiated these conversations, understanding Sherlock's need to focus on work. But, he was a doctor, and, not being present, was worried for his (not dead) flatmate, who was as susceptible to illnesses as an infant. True, Sherlock rarely got terribly sick-his immune system apparently as compromising as the rest of his "transport"-but when he did, it hit him hard. Viruses in general seemed to be more troublesome to the detective than hunger or exhaustion.

It was late fall, and John was braving a terrifying line at Tesco's. Partially out of boredom, he took out his phone, checking for texts. He realized he hadn't heard from Sherlock in some time and so, without too much remorse, he texted Sherlock.

_How's your fever?_

To his surprise, he received a text back immediately. _Feeling much better. It must be low. Not achy anymore. Still tired.-SH_

_You need to invest in a thermometer._

_Boring. They confuse me, anyway.-SH_

This made John smile because, in Sherlockian code, this meant: "I miss you." _Miss you too._

_Refreshingly observant, John.-SH_

_Mind if I ask what you're doing?_

There was a longer pause this time, and John suspected Sherlock was up to something no normal man with a fever would attempt. But, he was almost at the front of the line now, so he put away his phone. He'd just paid and left when his phone vibrated again. John hailed a taxi, jumped in, rattled off his address, and read the text.

_Was on stakeout. Just sniped the operative. With a tranquilizer.-SH_

John tutted, even though he'd been expecting the response (or something similar) and texted back. _You should be resting. Sleeping off your fever._

_I will be, gladly. Going to my hideout and then to sleep. These have been the most tiring two weeks of my life.-SH_

John hummed in approval. _Good. Best get some food in you as well. God knows how long it's been since you've put a decent meal into that abused belly of yours._

_Too long, if the sounds its making are any indication. I am desperately craving Mrs. Hudson's jam tarts.-SH_

John chuckled. _I am, too, come to think of it. She doesn't bake much anymore._

_I assume it is probably my fault?-SH_

_Considering everyone else thinks you're dead, yeah. I'd say that's a brilliant deduction._

_Thank you.-SH_

John snorted and got out of the cab with his groceries, paying the cabbie. He looked twice at the man, never quite forgetting the murderous cabbie of "A Study in Pink." While he was unlocking the door, his phone buzzed with another text. John suppressed a smile as he entered 221B and went up the stairs. Setting down his burden, he looked at the text.

_I really am sorry I had to do it. Moriarty had me cornered. I had prepared, of course, but I thought there was a better way.-SH_

John sighed in relief, thinking of his panic washed away only a month or so ago. _Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm just glad you thought of everything._

_I'm laughing for real right now. Which I shouldn't be. Can't be too obvious in a crowd.-SH_

John started putting away the groceries. _I hope you're not staying in a rathole somewhere. Can't be good for your fever._

_My disguise is an upperclass businessman. I have secured a room in a five-star hotel.-SH_

John frowned. _Still in Italy, then?_

_Russia, actually.-SH_

_That can't be good for your fever._

_Relax, doctor. I am at my hotel.-SH_

_How are you feeling?_

_Frankly, I'm starving. Haven't had a truly decent meal since dinner the night before my suicide.-SH_

John nearly dropped his phone. _That's more than a bit not good, Sherlock._

_As my stomach has decided to kindly inform the busboy. It has the worst timing.-SH_

John started laughing, despite himself._ Don't make me laugh, you git. Mrs. Hudson could be back any minute. She'll think I've gone mad._

_I can't say I'm ashamed. What's safe for me to eat?-SH_

_Go light on your stomach to start. You're usually good with refeeding, but fevers tend to make you nauseous. Soup is always a good start. If you can order a pot of tomato or chicken noodle, you'll do fine._

_I wish I had a doctor. It's tedious to care for myself.-SH_

John's heart warmed, but before he could reply, another message came.

_I'm very tired. When can I sleep?-SH_

_If your stomach's audible, I suggest eating something first. Then, you can sleep all you like._

_Thank you, John. Good night.-SH_

Though it was only three in the afternoon, John replied with:_ Goodnight, Sherlock._


	21. Human Cruelty

John stares. And then realizes he is staring, so he looks away. But, he can't help it. So he stares again, simply because what is happening right now is so…odd.

Sherlock is eating a carefully toasted ham and cheese sandwich while sitting at the kitchen table. One arm is bent, the corresponding hand holding the sandwich carefully so that the crusted surface of the bread does not explode under his touch. The other hand is busy paging through a magazine-_Science and Pathology Bimonthly_, John thinks, though he can't be sure. Sherlock's eyes peruse the words on the page, chewing. He swallows, wets his lips once to rid them of crumbs, and then sinks his teeth into the sandwich, taking a bite, chewing, swallowing. He turns the page.

The sight is not uncommon, nowadays. Ever since Sherlock returned from the dead (or, wherever he was not being dead), he has been eating almost regularly. When there are no cases, Sherlock eats three square meals a day. Unlike his other methodical procedures and so like his fellow man, the time of day he eats his three meals and what he eats varies. Sometimes, he will have dessert, or he will snack in the middle of the day. It's so…_human,_ that John wants to slap himself whenever he sees it.

On cases, the eating pattern is slightly more familiar. Whereas without a case, Sherlock doesn't care about his diet, he is strict on cases. He eats light and he eats light foods-fruit, vegetables, light cakes, even ice cream if the weather is not cold. And he only nibbles, which, before the Fall, John was lucky to see. Before the Fall, John was lucky if he could getSherlock to clean his plate of an evening. Now, well, he couldn't get Sherlock to stop.

Not that he wants Sherlock to stop, oh no. Because this is what he'd wanted all along, wasn't it? He'd _wanted_ Sherlock to eat, to get healthier, to finally gain some shred of color and lose the unhealthy skinniness. John reflected upon the days when Sherlock's cheeks were deathly pale, when his cheekbones were as visible as the skull's, when he trembled with cold even in the warm flat, when he was a skeleton beneath his shirts, when he would sway at crime scenes if he hadn't eaten in God-knew how long, when the sounds of his deprived stomach rang loudly over the soft bubbling of his chemicals or the plucking notes of the violin. When Sherlock had first returned, he was all of that, but ten times worse. Evidently, being dead had not been kind to him. And naturally, John had expected to have to goad Sherlock into eating more than usual.

Wasn't he (pleasantly?) surprised when Sherlock did that all on his own? John thought that maybe it would stop, and Sherlock's diet would return to normal. Not so. Sherlock had been home for a month. Within that month, he had solved twelve crimes for Lestrade. Now that he was eating all the time, a slight dusting of pink now colored his face, his cheekbones fading, his eyes brighter. He was still impossibly thin, but it looked more of a healthier thinness than a starved one. And John, though he was incredibly confused, didn't have the balls to ask about his flatmate's habits.

John was snapped from his thoughts by the clink of a plate being placed in the sink. He looked up and saw Sherlock smiling to himself, licking away the last of the crumbs from his lips. For half a second as he swallowed, he closed his eyes, and John had the absurd feeling he was watching something incredibly private. He cleared his throat nervously, and Sherlock seemed to snap to attention, straightening and tensing, grabbing his tea off the table and taking a few long gulps before moving to his armchair. John pretended to read his book, but he felt the genius' eyes peeling him like an onion.

"All right," he snapped, flinging down his book and confronting Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock seemed taken aback for a moment, but he calmed quickly. "Ah, of course. You haven't dined. I don't suppose I could interest you in a croque monsieur?" His voice was smiling widely, even if his mouth was only slightly upturned.

John shook his head. "Why are you staring at me?" He demanded.

"Was I staring?" Sherlock leaned back contemplatively, melting into his chair and putting his cup aside. "My apologies. I find that a day of meals makes me more reflective than usual." He hummed contentedly, closing his eyes, his fingers worrying at the button of his jacket.

John watched his chest move as he breathed. Expand. Contract. Repeat. Then he sighed. There really was no reason to be angry. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm just wondering…" he rolled the words around in his mouth before speaking. "…Are you on drugs again?"

"Am I what?" Sherlock chuckled in amusement, languidly sitting up in his chair and opening his eyes. They were twinkling merrily. Goodness, but his eyes were soft! Another side effect of a good meal. Whereas starvation made the eyes predatory and sharp, regular meals made the edges softer, the center brighter and happier.

John ran a hand through his hair. "I know it sounds dumb, Sherlock, but your routine has changed so drastically…I have to be allowed to wonder."

The amusement left Sherlock as he steepled his fingers. John knew he was in trouble. "A year before I met you, I quit both cocaine and morphine. I was never fond of marijuana. It spikes the appetite unnecessarily."

The next words pre-Fall John would have regretted speaking. "But that's what's happened to you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you think? You, who complained of my audible stomach? Really now, John."

John had to say he was chastened. But his curiosity remained. "Sherlock, I'm not unhappy that you're eating," he reassured his friend. "In fact, I'm chuffed! Eating is good for you! I just don't understand your sudden change of heart. That's all."

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "It was a nasty and unpleasant experience for me. I fear, even, to tell it."

John leaned forward. "Please. Tell me. Let me help you. I am a doctor." They were old words, but they were enough.

Sherlock smiled and began.

Sherlock looked up as the police constable entered the room. He was about Sherlock's height, perhaps 5'9" to his 6', but the portly belly told of an overindulgent lifestyle. "I've come to take you to a crime scene, Holmes."

_Sherlock inhaled the scent of fresh coffee and the sweet American fried doughnuts. His mouth watered and his empty stomach pined for a taste. "I don't suppose I could take a moment to nibble something," He said conversationally, rising from the floor of the prison cell as DI Cook unlocked his handcuffs with warm, pudgy, surprisingly deft fingers, leaving a smudge of strawberry icing on his coat sleeve. "It's been nearly a week since I've had anything decent."_

"_You'll have enough coffee to make a gas guzzler run," Cook replied sternly. "If your blogger is to be believed, you've subsisted on less for longer periods. Besides, it was you yourself who said you didn't need food to work, yeah? Come now, let's look at the crime scene."_

_Sherlock nodded. It took every shred of his dignity not to taste the trace of icing still staining his sleeve. It had been like this for a week already, and it was destined to continue for a month before Moriarty's North American operatives were caught and Cook let him free…_

"Good God," John sat back, his eyes wide with horror. "He starved you…and it's _my_ fault."

"It's nothing of the sort," Sherlock dismissed. "I have been chastened for my yammering." He sighed, dragging a hand down his chest. "Even now, I feel hungry. So much emotion is involved with these memories. A messy thing." He chuckled easily, smiling at John.

But the doctor was frightened with worry and filled with sympathetic pains for his friend. And to think, he thought it was some malice which drove Sherlock to dinner, when it was, in fact, a sort of PTSD.

"Don't leave, John," Sherlock begged, seeing him wince in his chair. "I don't blame you."

"Yer, well…" John stood with all the force of a captain. "I do."

With that, the army doctor ran up the stairs to his room, tears streaming down his face.


End file.
